


Exordia

by ArgentNoelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgentNoelle/pseuds/ArgentNoelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby never stayed on as a ghost. This changes a lot of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exordia

“When I die—”  
“No, stop right there,” Dean said. “You’re not going to die.”  
Sam just looked at him, weary and tired. The bags on his eyes were purple and bruised, his white clothes seemed too bright. “Dean,” he said. Dean could see the effort it took for Sam to argue, but he had always been stubborn.  
He wanted to touch something, to smash something.  
“When I die, I want you to find someone—”  
“If you’re talking about—”  
He found himself unable to say it. He’d told Sam never to bring them up again.  
“I’m not,” Sam said.  
“I’m not going to stop hunting,” Dean said, realizing as he said it that he’d allowed Sam to turn the conversation his way, to talk about what would happen after.  
“I’m not asking you to,” Sam said. He was sitting up—Dean wanted to say _lie down, it’s okay_ but said nothing. Sam was trembling just holding himself upright, but he wasn’t going to lie down. He wasn’t going to stop talking to Dean about this, even after Dean insisted they’d find a way to save him.  
Sam closed his eyes just for a moment, sighed, and opened them. He looked more collected, calm. “When it’s all over, find someone, and stay with them.”  
Dean sat down beside Sam, reached out to his arm. Why was it that he felt more hopeless than Sam looked?  
But Sam didn’t ask him to promise. Not this time.  
When he left, Dean stopped at the door. “I’ll find a way to save you,” he said. “It’ll be okay.”  
.  
.  
.  
Dean didn’t give Sam a hunter’s funeral.  
It felt wrong, somehow—he had him buried in a real graveyard, with a real headstone. He’d agonized over the engraving for days before finally settling on Sam’s name, and below it, _he saved everyone._  
At least it fit.  
.  
.  
.  
Dean drove. The Impala was too empty without Sam in the passenger’s seat—filling it with music helped, sometimes. Other times it just made the emptiness more profound.  
.  
.  
.

[The Leviathans took over the world, slowly. Some of the population was warned, or found out—they congregated together on the edges, in remote towns the Leviathan didn’t bother trying to destroy.  
It wasn’t as though anyone could do anything.  
And they had enough to eat.]

.  
.  
.  
He drove along highways, passing less and less cars as the weeks went by. He hunted, until the reports stopped, as the newspapers stopped. He hunted what came at him, and what he could find, but most of all he drove.  
He drove to escape, and to find, but he never did.  
.  
.  
.  
Dean was on his last tank of gas. There was nowhere to get more, and the other alternative was to drive until the Impala broke down, and then leave it on the side of the road; and he couldn’t do that.  
He found a safe place and parked her there. Out of the elements she’d be safe. Dean got out and let his fingers trail over her, still warm, before turning to the trunk and taking everything he’d need, packing it into his bag.  
The trenchcoat was there. Rolled up and still covered with blood and black goo. He’d never cleaned it—never thought about why, but now he wondered if it was because he’d always thought Cas would come back, that he’d be able to reach out and hand it to him, and Cas would snap it clean.  
He picked it up. Reflected on taking it out and wearing it; but in the end he put it down in the middle of the trunk, left it with all the weapons he couldn’t take with him, and closed the hood.  
He pulled a cloth over her, closed the door behind him, and left.  
.  
.  
.  
It figured that eventually he would find his way to people, somehow.  
Camp Chitaqua, the sign read, and Dean reflected on the irony. But inside, the people moved about freely—without the croats as a constant threat, the space had become more of a home, if only for refugees.  
/  
/  
/  
He spends the first few days helping out, and exploring, meeting the people. They don’t ask too many questions, welcoming him in. It’s a strange feeling.  
.  
.  
“All right, I’ll meet him.” Dean has been avoiding him, though everyone tells him about the healer—mysterious healers remind him of too many unpleasant things.  
But they assure him Emmanuel is worth it.  
.  
.  
He walks up to the door. It’s a nice house, though small, and he knocks on the door, half regretting it already. He can hear the sound of footsteps approaching, and the door opens, to reveal a man in a dark blue shirt.  
Dean’s breath catches. He is staring for far too long, but the man is staring back just as intently. “Cas,” he whispers, or maybe only thinks.  
His eyes take in Dean and he moves aside. “Come in,” he says, and Dean moves on autopilot, unable to tear his eyes away from Castiel.  
Cas shows him to a seat—it’s a little couch in front of a coffee table with a glass top, and there is another couch on the other side, which Cas sits down on. He is calm, unsurprised. Unrecognizing.  
The light from the window reflects off the table.  
Dean looks down, and doesn’t say the questions which have come into his head, most of which are angry and accusatory, a few of which are not.  
“My brother is dead.”  
Cas reaches across the table, touching Dean’s hand gently. When Dean looks up his eyes are sad.  
“I can’t bring back the dead,” he says. “I’m sorry.”  
.  
 _[I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition._  
The first time Dean and Castiel met, Dean tried to kill him.]  
.  
“I’m not—asking you to bring him back.”  
“Then what is it you need?” Cas asks.  
“I don’t know.”  
.  
.  
.  
Dean tells himself not to go back. What use is there in chasing a ghost? Its obvious Cas has no idea who he is.  
But he goes back anyway.  
Cas opens the door and invites him inside. Dean wonders who else he’s invited inside his house with that same unruffled calmness, who else has sat across from him on the old couch and told him their fears.  
.  
.  
.  
“I told him I’d find some way to save him. But I couldn’t.”  
“Your brother?”  
“Yes,” Dean says. ( _And Bobby._ )  
 _And you._  
.  
.  
.  
Dean tells him about Sam. He tells him stories about his brother, remembrances.  
He does not tell him about the supernatural. That they were hunters. About demons… or about angels.  
.  
.  
.  
His visits become more often, and they move from the couches into other parts of the house. They talk about other things, unimportant things. Cas decides Dean needs to be taught how to cook.  
Dean still has to pause before saying his name, finds he wants to call him Cas instead of Emmanuel.  
If Emmanuel notices, he doesn’t say anything.  
.  
.  
.  
“I had a friend. Cas.”  
They are standing in the kitchen. Dean is chopping vegetables to go into a stew—everything is homemade, because the Leviathan have gotten to everything else.  
.  
.  
[Dean went into the suburbs, once. Just to see.  
The lawns are no longer manicured, and no one is outside, except for the occasional Leviathan. (You can tell what they are, because they are neat, and thin, and purposeful.)  
He caught sight of some of the people, through the windows.  
He didn’t go back.]  
.  
.  
Fall turns into winter. They stay inside more often now, when there isn’t work to do. Cas shows him how to play backgammon, because there is a board in his house.  
There’s a chess board on the other side.  
“I don’t know how to play,” he explains. “Daphne was never interested.”  
.  
.  
.  
He tells Dean about how Daphne found him, and Dean counts it as final proof that it really is Cas, somehow.  
Eventually, he tells him how she died.  
.  
.  
.  
 _{I was coming home. There was a man on the steps, which wasn’t that unusual—but when he turned around, he had… I don’t know how to explain it to you. I could see his face, but it was like a mask over his real face. He let me rush to the door, and I could see her. She was tied up on a chair; her mouth was gagged._  
 _I tried to go in, but he flicked his fingers and I landed on the ground. When I got up, he had gone inside, and was standing over her. I ran in, but I wasn’t fast enough. He looked at me as he cut her throat._  
 _Then he came at me again. I thought I was going to die, but he came right up to me and I felt so angry—I’ve never felt that angry. I just reached up and put my hand over his forehead, and there was a bright light, and then he fell to the ground._  
 _He was dead, and his eyes were burned out.}_  
.  
.  
.  
Dean talks about Cas, sometimes, too. He talks about the good parts, and the bad parts. How he betrayed them, caused Sam’s death. That he died, but Dean just couldn’t let go.  
“It’s like some part of me always thought he’d come back.”  
.  
.  
.  
With spring comes something new. They are standing on the back porch. Just come back from planting the fields with the others, but it is still early and cool. They are not saying anything.  
Their friendship has never minded silence.  
.  
.  
.  
It is not long before Cas asks, hesitantly—and he is so rarely hesitant—if Dean wants to move in.  
“Of course,” Dean says.  
.  
.  
.  
Nothing really changes. Sometimes their touches last longer, and now they kiss, and have sex, but everything important stays the same.  
Dean finds this strangely comforting.  
/  
/  
/  
One time, as they sat together on the couch, Emmanuel asked, “Am I Cas?”  
The sun was shining through the window and the summer air was still and humid.  
Dean looked at him, and opened his mouth, searching for words to explain.  
“…No,” he said. And he leaned forward to close the gap between their faces.  
/  
.  
.  
 _“All right,” Emmanuel answers, when the kiss ends._ |


End file.
